They seem so small and quiet
When you plant them in the fall.
You’d never guess the clamor they’ll make,
No, you’d never guess it at all.
They don’t make noise in the spring
When they start to rise up green
They make a pretty nice blossom
And the scene is quite serene
And even when you dig them up
And hang them up to dry
You won’t hear nary a whisper
No sir, nor the wisp of a sigh
But you mince these bad boys up
And fry them in some oil;
They’ll issue a savory call so loud,
Your senses will rumble and roil
And when you roast them in the oven
And then just leave them out,
Why, they’ll raise up such a fragrant din,
You’ll swear you heard them shout.
I’ll probably delete this in the morning. I might have to say that louder so you can hear me over the din of the garlic.
Lynniebeemuseoday 